


Leather Jackets and Bad Coffee

by Antonius



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Motorcycles, biker!AU, punk!quinn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antonius/pseuds/Antonius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ninety miles and nearly two hours from the heart of New York City, just off of PA-33 North, is the little town of Belfast, Pennsylvania: population 1,257. Right outside the city limits sits Moe's, a small 24-hour diner whose newest waitress, Rachel Berry, has taken her best friend Kurt's advice and started a calm summer temp job away from the hustle-and-bustle of busy city life in order to rest up before her final year at NYADA.</p><p>During her very first midnight shift, she encounters a group of rowdy regulars led by a pink-haired woman with piercing hazel eyes. Quinn Fabray is the leader of the Skanks, a small but well-known local biker gang that doesn't take shit from anyone.</p><p>So began the strangest summer of Rachel Berry's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Career in a New Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd because I am a lone wolf.*

 

> **19 May 2013, Sunday, 11:47pm**

“Rachel, when I said that you should ‘take a quiet summer job and get away from the city’, I didn’t mean that you should disappear entirely and decide to work at a crappy diner in the middle of nowhere.” Even over the phone, Rachel could see Kurt’s frustrated expression—eyes wide, hair mussed, one hand holding the phone and the other gesturing wildly. She rolled her eyes, even though he couldn’t see it.

“It’s not the middle of nowhere, Kurt. I am less than two hours outside the city.”

“Rachel! _You’re in Pennsylvania!_ ”

“ _Belfast,_ Pennsylvania! Which is not that far from New York!”

“You _left the state_ , Rachel. If you were going to do that, you may as well have just gone back to Lima for the summer.”

“I wasn’t offered a job in Lima, Kurt. Besides, Belfast is far closer than Lima, so now you have less of an excuse to avoid coming out to see me until next semester starts.” Kurt snorted out loud at that, not even bothering to hide his disgust with the idea.

“Rachel, my dear, I love you like a sister, but I am _not_ driving out to the middle of nowhere to come sit in your tiny little sublet that probably barely has any room for _you_.” Rachel had made no mention of what her living situation was like, but Kurt could only imagine a tiny, ratty apartment with a mattress on the floor and a microwave on a single overturned cardboard box. A voice in the back of his head told him that he was exaggerating, but he paid it no mind. “If you want to see me, you can make the trip back to the city and spend a weekend in _our_ loft, which I was kind enough to stay in even though it’s going to be awfully empty without your dramatic storm-outs to fill the space.” Rachel huffed with irritation at Kurt, whom she now considered to be just as dramatic as she was, especially after their time spent together in New York.

“Kurt, you and I both know that you’re still in that loft because our lease is signed through the end of the year, not because you’re holding it for me out of the goodness of your heart.” She heard him exhale forcefully through the phone and could see him in her mind’s eye, waving away her words with his free hand.

“Details. If I’d really wanted to, I could have sublet the loft and joined you on your soul-searching trip to the boonies.” Now it was Rachel’s turn to snort. _As if._

“I’m not in the 'boonies', Kurt. And don’t pretend you even considered joining me, even though I asked you to—you’re even more incapable of leaving New York City than I am. I think you’ve become addicted to the hustle-and-bustle of city life.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Rachel. I’ve simply settled into life in the city I was meant to be in.”

“ _You’re_ calling _me_ dramatic?” She barked out a laugh, largely out of genuine amusement, but partially to hide her offense. “Pot, meet kettle.” Kurt knew he couldn’t disagree, so instead he changed the subject.

“At least I didn’t leave the state just because something backfired in my face. Pennsylvania is a little drastic, Rachel—”

“—Kurt, don’t. This isn’t about that. I really did need to get out of the city. Just for a little while. New York has been my dream my whole life, and now I’ve been living there for years.” Rachel knew Kurt was unlikely to take her at her word, but she wasn’t lying. At least, not completely. “It’ll be good to leave it for a while so I can fall in love with it all over again when I get back.” Kurt replied with a tone of voice that indicated just how little he believed her.

“If you say so, Rachel. But I still think you’re making a mistake.” Rachel sighed in resignation—she wasn’t going to change his mind tonight.

“I know you do. Anyway, I have to go, Kurt. My shift’s about to start.” She moved her phone from one hand to the other, preparing to end the call after they exchanged their goodbyes. Kurt, however, launched into the conversation with newfound fervor.

“About—about to _start?_ Rachel, it’s nearly midnight! I assumed your shift had just _ended!_ You’re working the graveyard shift at a crappy diner in the middle of Butthole, Nowhere, and you feel _safe_ doing that? Have you lost your mind?!” Now Kurt really _was_ being dramatic. Rachel tried not to laugh at him, or she’d never get him off the phone.

“We _grew up_ in a small town, Kurt. Not as small as Belfast, but still a small town. It’s not only drug dealers and rapists that prowl around at night. Besides, it’s not as if I’m working the shift alone. There are two other people there with me.”

“Two other people who, for all you know, could be drug dealers or rapists.” Kurt’s continued insistence that Rachel had intentionally placed herself in a dangerous situation ran thin on her patience, and her irritation with him got the better of her.

“For someone so afraid of judgment, you’re being awfully judgmental, Kurt.” His stunned silence allowed Rachel to continue, hoping to spare his feelings while still making her point. “I appreciate your concern, but I feel it is misplaced. I’ll call you after my shift if you want some kind of verification that I haven’t been kidnapped or murdered on my first night. But I’m not just some helpless waif running away from her problems, and I think that as my friend, you owe me the benefit of the doubt.” The following pause stretched on long enough that Rachel briefly thought Kurt had hung up on her, but just as she was about to pull the phone down to check, a long, drawn-out sigh told her he was still on the line.

“I can’t guarantee I’ll be awake, but yes, you should at least leave me a message.” Rachel smiled. Two drama queens living in the same space made for many dramatic arguments as well as a mutual perfection of their last-word-storm-outs, but at the end of the day, she and Kurt were still best friends. He might have been pushier than he needed to be in expressing it, but he was just trying to show he cared.

“Okay. I will. Goodnight, Kurt.” She couldn’t see him, but Rachel was sure Kurt was smiling back at her when he replied.

“Goodnight, Rachel.”

After hanging up and placing her phone in her purse, Rachel sighed and stared at the display on the dashboard of her idling car, focusing on the blinking colon between the 11 and the 57. After several blinks, the numbers rolled over to 11:58. “Two more minutes,” she whispered, trying to psych herself up; despite the front she had put on for Kurt, Rachel was in fact very nervous about what she’d done. She didn’t know anyone in Belfast, and while she had been offered the summer job as a favor from the stage director of a small show she had starred in the summer before who happened to know the owner, she didn’t know any of the employees. On top of that, the idea of handling and serving the traditional diner fare of meaty burgers, greasy bacon, fried eggs, etc.— _shudder_ —had caused her no small amount of distress. Her reasoning was that, while she didn’t have to _eat_ any of those things, she should get used to the reality that she would not be able to avoid handling them forever.

“And what better way to get used to it than by throwing myself into food service?” she mumbled out loud. “You can do this, Rachel. You’ve carried your glee club team to a win at Nationals in front of a crowd of hundreds.” Rachel smiled and closed her eyes at the memory, reliving the victory onstage to give her a fresh burst of energy. “You’ve cumulatively performed in front of _thousands_ of people over the course of your entire life. You can certainly handle serving burgers to a few passing truckers in the middle of the night for a summer. Don’t freak out. You’re a born performer. You can do this. _You can do this_.” The longer she pep-talked herself, the more psyched up she got. She bounced in her seat and nodded her head enthusiastically. “You’re a performer, Rachel. You can handle a summer job at a crappy diner.”

Rachel opened her eyes and stared at the diner itself, taking in the sight. It looked almost exactly like she assumed a diner should—windows lined the front and sides, cutting the building in half, with shiny metal covering the top half’s rounded corners and rusting, corrugated metal on the bottom half. An old red neon sign sat right above the entrance and proudly proclaimed, in a looping, cursive font: _Barrymore’s_. Or, well, it had surely said that several years ago. But age had taken its toll, and the bulbs in most of the letters had burnt out and never been replaced. In the dark of the night, _____mo_e’s was all that remained.

Rachel was glad for her tendency to show up anywhere she had to be at least fifteen minutes early, or she’d have been late on her first day after driving around in circles looking for “Moe’s”, only to realize after passing the diner for the tenth time that Barrymore’s was where she was actually supposed to be. She’d been pleasantly surprised to see that the diner was, she assumed, named after the legendary John Barrymore, who had been a Pennsylvania native. “It’s a sign that we’re meant to be here,” Rachel proclaimed to the empty car. “Okay! Let’s get in there! Let’s go! _Let’s go!_ ”

With one final calming breath, Rachel glanced at the clock display.

 

 

> **12:03**

“ _Crap!"_ She turned off her car and threw herself into the parking lot, slamming the door and stumbling through Moe’s entrance (ringing the bell that hung above the double doors in the process). Across the diner, leaning on the counter with arms crossed and bearing angry frowns, were the people Rachel assumed to be her coworkers. “Oh, my, I’m so sorry I’m late, I was just—”

“—Driving past a half-a-dozen times like damn fool? Talking to yourself in your car? Yeah, we saw.” Rachel’s smile faltered, and she diverted her eyes to the floor in shame. She'd wanted to make a good impression on her first day; if Kurt refused to come visit her, these people would be her only friends this summer. The thought that she’d already ruined things by showing up late was not a pleasing one. She slowly walked forward, wringing her hands and still staring at the ground, not sure what to say next.

When she pulled her gaze up to look back at her coworkers, she was surprised to find wide grins plastered across both of their faces. At seeing the concerned expression on Rachel’s face, neither of them could help it—they burst into loud, raucous laughter. The woman who had chastised her reached out her arm and clapped Rachel on the shoulder, both to calm Rachel’s nerves and just to hold herself up so she didn’t fall over laughing.

“You should—you should’ve seen the look on your face! You looked so worried!” The woman stood up slowly, regaining her breath, and gave Rachel a warm, genuine smile. The man behind the counter, who was leaning forward onto it and gasping for breath, smiled just as widely as the woman—or _more_ widely, even, since he had the biggest lips Rachel had ever seen. The woman pulled her into a quick hug, patting her on the back before letting her go.

“Girl, you need to relax. You sat out there pep-talkin’ yourself for ten minutes like you’re about to go to war or somethin’. It’s just a diner! We won’t bite you.” She held her hand out for Rachel to shake, and Rachel took it. “I’m Mercedes.” The man behind the counter leaned over and offered his hand as well before pulling it back and removing the clear plastic glove it wore, then offering it again. Rachel shook it and her tiny hand was dwarfed within his.

“And I’m Sam. Welcome to Moe’s. It’s good to see some new blood in here once in a while.” Mercedes gave him a sidelong glance and shook her head.

“Don’t get too attached, Sam. Mr. Flanagan said she’s only here for the summer. Then she goes back to the big city and leaves us all alone again.” Sam smiled even more widely than before, if that was possible.

“Maybe she’ll fall in love with the simpler life out here and decide to stay. Don’t write her off just yet.” Mercedes chuckled at that, and Rachel already knew she was going to like these two. She gave both of them a relieved smile.

“Hi, Sam. Mercedes. I’m Rachel Berry.” Sam, placing his glove back on his hand, nodded at her.

“Nice to meet you, Rachel.” Mercedes nodded in agreement and turned to lead Rachel to the Employees Only back room. Once inside, Mercedes pulled a freshly-laundered outfit on a wire hanger from where it was hanging on an exposed pipe, and handed it to Rachel.

“Here’s your uniform. It should fit, but if it doesn’t, we have a couple others over there.”She pointed to a table in a corner that held three extra uniforms and a small box of paper hats. “You can put your regular clothes back in your car after you’ve changed and just wear your uniform out. Until you quit, it’s yours. You can take it home and wash it as often as you need.” Mercedes left Rachel alone to change, and she was pleased that her new uniform fit on the first try. The small Employees Only room was mostly bare except for the corner table, a wall-mounted telephone, and an old, ratty blue couch backed up against the opposite wall, but a small mirror dotted with black spots next to the phone allowed Rachel to give herself a once-over before she went back out.

The Barrymore’s uniform consisted of a short-sleeved button-up shirt with alternating vertical white and seafoam stripes about an inch thick, a plain, knee-length grey skirt, and a small white pouch hanging from the waist that held straws, pens, and a pad of paper. Rachel pulled her hair into a ponytail to keep it out of the food she served (though Mercedes, she noted, let her hair hang down), grabbed a paper hat out of the box, and backed out of the room while fastening the hat to her head with a bobby pin. When she spun around, Rachel saw Sam and Mercedes—Sam on the inside of the counter and Mercedes seated on a barstool on the opposite side facing him—talking quietly but animatedly to one another. She took the opportunity to size up her new coworkers.

Sam was a very tall, kind-faced man with sandy blonde hair, pale skin, green eyes and the aforementioned large lips. He wore an apron over his uniform that had probably been white at some point in time, but was now a light shade of brown and dotted with stains of various ages in brown, red and yellow. His large hands had clear plastic gloves on them, and a small paper hat from the box sat on his head, fastened in place the same way as Rachel’s.

Mercedes was a slightly stout woman no taller than Rachel herself, with medium-length wavy black hair, kind, brown eyes, and dark skin. Her uniform was identical to Rachel’s, though she wore her paper hat tilted toward the left side of her head rather than right on top like Rachel and Sam’s.

Sam saw Rachel approaching first, and gestured for Mercedes to turn and look. He folded his arms and tried to pull in his smile, giving Rachel a stern, appraising look; Mercedes did the same.

“What do you think, Mercedes?”

“I think she looks like she was born to serve greasy food by the roadside, Sam.” Rachel twirled around in her new uniform and curtseyed, earning applause and laughter.

“A born performer is what she is,” Mercedes said as she walked over to Rachel. “Mr. Flanagan said you were from some actor college up in New York, right?” Rachel nodded.

“Yes. I’m about to start my senior year at NYADA.” Sam’s brow furrowed.

“Nyabluhbwa?” Rachel knew he was just teasing her, but clarified anyway.

“The New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts. It’s the top school in the nation for musical theatre, if I do say so myself.” Rachel didn’t want to come off as arrogant, but she was very proud of what she had accomplished by being accepted to NYADA in the first place. “It’s a great place. My best friend Kurt and I were both very lucky to get in.” Mercedes pulled Rachel over to the entrance to the kitchen, motioning for Sam to meet them there.

“You let Mr. Flanagan tell it, luck had nothin' to do with it. He said you got a voice like an angel.” Rachel, shy despite being confident in her abilities, gave Mercedes a small smile.

“He did?” They reached the double doors at the same time as Sam, and he pulled one back to let them through, nodding at Rachel as he did so.

“He did.” Rachel blushed at the compliment, allowing Mercedes to lead her back into the kitchen proper.

“Don’t be gettin’ all self-conscious on us now. We expect to hear that voice singin’ along to whatever’s playin’ over the speakers every day you’re here.”

Sam shrugged. “Or you can just give us free front-row tickets to your first big Broadway show. Whichever is easier for you.”

* * *

 

Over the following half-hour, Rachel learned how to work the cash register, bus a table, mop or sweep up a mess, and carry a tray overhead. She didn’t quite feel comfortable enough with that last one to carry a tray overhead while it was actually loaded up, but she figured she’d get there eventually. Honestly, she had expected her training to take quite a bit longer, but not a single customer had come in to slow down the teaching process, and since Sam did all the cooking (which she was more than grateful for—she could live with serving non-vegan foods, but she didn’t think she could bear to prepare them), there wasn’t actually a lot that needed to be done.

“So, most of the time, you guys just get paid to sit around and talk?”

Sam laughed. “Pretty much. I mean, once in a blue moon it’ll get really busy, and there’s actually a steady stream of people coming in and out during the daytime, but us graveyard shifters don’t usually have to deal with anything at all like the lunch rush.” Rachel was glad to hear that. She’d taken the job to give herself a calm summer, and working in a regularly empty diner with only Sam and Mercedes for company seemed about as calm as could be. Mercedes saw Rachel’s relief and elbowed her lightly.

“Don’t get too complacent, new girl. Just ‘cause we don’t have as many regulars as the daytime workers don’t mean it’s all quiet contemplation until sunrise. If nothin' else, I promise you the Skanks’ll keep you on your toes.” Rachel, sure that she must have misheard Mercedes, did a double-take.

“The…the what?”

Sam nodded sagely. “The Skanks. Mercedes is right, they’re definitely gonna mess with you. They haven’t seen new blood in here in a long time.” Rachel, now sure of what she heard but no less confused by it, gave Sam a strange look.

“The…skanks? You mean…” Rachel looked to her left and to her right, then leaned in close, whispering despite the diner being deserted. “…you mean you have _prostitutes_ come in here?”

A full five seconds passed in dead silence before both Mercedes and Sam burst out laughing, their guffaws filling the small room. Rachel, now thoroughly confused, darted her eyes from one person to the other, waiting for one of them to stop laughing long enough to explain. Sam recovered first, wiping tears from his eyes with his forearm.

“Oh, man…don’t let them hear you call them that, or there’ll be Hell to pay.” Mercedes agreed, still chuckling a bit in-between words.

“Really, though. Heh-heh—they—prostitutes, oh, Lord—ha!—You’d never hear the end of it.” Realizing that they had not actually cleared anything up for Rachel, Mercedes swallowed the last of her laughter and took pity on the girl.

“I can see why you’d think that, on account of the name and all, but no, the Skanks aren’t prostitutes.”

“Not that there’d be anything wrong with it if they were,” Sam cut in, earning him an amused look from Rachel. He shrugged.

“What can I say? A handjob is still a job.” Mercedes and Rachel both laughed out loud at that.

“No, the Skanks aren’t prostitutes. They’re really our only regulars during the graveyard shift, except for the occasional long-haul truckers who come through here every few days.” Rachel was glad for the explanation, but Mercedes still hadn’t actually answered her question.

“But if they’re not prostitutes, then why are you calling them skanks?”

Mercedes shook her head. “No, not skanks, Rachel, _Skanks_. You’re not seein' it, but it’s a capital S. Capital-S-Skanks. _The_ Skanks.” Rachel nodded slowly as Mercedes elaborated, still failing to see the point. Mercedes could see the confusion still etched on Rachel’s face.

“It’s a club name, Rachel! The Skanks are a—what?” Sam had lightly bumped Mercedes with his forearm to cut her off. Both girls looked at him for an explanation, but he said nothing. Instead, his left arm was bent at the elbow, pointing straight up while he stared at Mercedes with his eyebrows raised. Mercedes tilted her head as if listening for something, and after a few seconds, a small grin crept across her face. She looked at Rachel and widened her eyes for a moment, lifting her brows as she did so. “Well, never mind the explanation. You’ll see for yourself.”

“See _what_ for myself?” Rachel was now even more confused than before. “What were you listening for? I don’t hear any—” She cut herself off then, because she _did_ hear something, though she wasn’t sure what it was. Upon seeing that Rachel had heard it, Sam and Mercedes grinned knowingly at one another. Rachel listened harder, trying to determine what exactly she was hearing. It was the faintest of rumbles, like a far-off thunderstorm, or a landslide, or, maybe…

Rachel swiveled her barstool toward the windows lining the entrance wall of the diner and listened. She spoke quietly, more to herself than to Sam or Mercedes. “Are those…” the rumble steadily grew louder, and though Rachel had never personally ridden one, the sound was now unmistakable. “…motorcycles?”

Her largely rhetorical question was answered fewer than twenty seconds later, when five motorcycles came thundering down the 33 and pulled off into the parking lot, backing in and parking two to a space. The riders approached the diner at a brisk pace, and even though they were still outside, Rachel could already hear their loud laughter and conversation, though she couldn’t make out the words. The rider in the lead turned around to push open the front door with their back, and Rachel saw what she assumed Mercedes had been about to explain to her: a semicircular patch on the back of their leather jacket, at the top, that read “SKANKS” in pink lettering on a faded black background. A variety of other patches that Rachel didn’t know the meaning of covered the rest of the jacket, though she assumed the “PENNSYLVANIA” on the bottom half of the back was self-explanatory.

As they filed in, one-by-one, Rachel found herself unable to look away from the spectacle unfolding before her. Here, on her very first shift, at her brand-new job, in a brand-new town, in the middle of the night, Rachel Barbra Berry had come face-to-face with an all-female biker gang. They paid her no mind, instead filing in and plopping down in the booth with the largest table, across from the counter, filing onto the seats until three girls were sitting on the left, and two were on the right. Never looking away from the group, the biker that Rachel assumed to be the leader raised her hand and snapped her fingers twice, then pointed down at the table.

_“¡Ven aqui!”_

Rachel looked at Mercedes in confusion, but Mercedes just gestured towards the table, indicating that Rachel was supposed to take their orders. All of Rachel’s earlier anxiety returned to her in full force, but she took a deep breath and crushed it down, refusing to back down from her very first customers. Taking purposefully confident strides, Rachel walked to the end of their table and, in her best “I’d-love-to-help-you” voice, greeted the group.

“Welcome to Barrymore’s, my name is—” Before she could finish her sentence, the Latina spoke over her, still not looking in her direction.

“We want our usuals, _chica._ And Boss will want a Bloody Mary when she rolls in.”

Rachel balked. “Your—your usuals? Of course, ladies. I don’t think we serve alcohol here, though...” The Latina, still not paying attention, waved Rachel away.

“‘We don’t serve alcohol’—Merc, what are you playing at? Don’t pull—” the Latina finally looked over at Rachel, and stopped dead mid-sentence. Her sudden silence made the entire table turn to look at Rachel, who immediately regretted drawing any attention to herself, however unintentionally. She did not consider having the undivided attention of a table full of bikers to be a good thing. Neither side spoke for several moments, but eventually, the Latina leaned over the table to look past Rachel and at Mercedes. “Merc! What the Hell is this?” she barked, gesturing towards Rachel. Mercedes rolled her eyes good-naturedly, and sent Sam to the kitchen to work on their orders before walking over to join Rachel.

“Ladies,” she said, gesturing at Rachel as if she were for sale on the Home Shopping Network, “this is Rachel Berry, our newest employee. She’s here for the summer, and she’ll be workin’ the graveyard with Sam and me. I expect you to treat her just like you treat us.” The Latina pulled her head back and gave Rachel the most blatant once-over she had ever received in her whole life, and she quickly crossed her arms as if to protect herself from the Latina’s roaming gaze.

“Oh, I’ll _treat_ her, all right.” Rachel blushed furiously and felt her face getting warm, but Mercedes only laughed.

“You’re all talk, Snix. We both know Britt’d never let you, even if you wanted to.” The Latina—apparently called ‘Snix’—winked at Rachel once before settling comfortably back down into her seat and throwing her arm around the woman to her left, who had long blonde hair and what Rachel thought had to be the bluest eyes in existence.

“True enough, Merc.” Snix pecked the woman—Britt—on the cheek, then rested her head on Britt’s shoulder. “No need to beat Rachel’s ass, Britt. I’m your one-woman-woman.” Rachel, unsure whether that threat of violence was real or meant in jest, was feeling more uncomfortable by the second. Mercedes, however, treated these girls like old friends, seeming neither afraid of nor offended by Snix.

“I already got Sam workin’ on your orders in the back, ladies. Anythin’ else I can get you? Is our last girl gonna be comin’ in tonight?” One of the women on the left side of the table responded this time, speaking to Mercedes while eyeing Rachel curiously.

“Yeah, she’s coming. Just had to stay back and make sure the drop went off without a hitch. I doubt she’ll want to eat tonight, though. You know how she is after a rough job.” Mercedes nodded in understanding. Rachel wondered whether they were talking about drugs.

“That I do, Mack.” Mercedes then did a half-turn to address the rest of the table. “Your food’ll be out soon, ladies. Just wave Rachel over if you need anythin' else.” Snix looked like she wanted to make another lewd comment about that, but Britt nudged her with her shoulder and the Latina held her tongue. As Mercedes and Rachel began to walk back to the kitchen, Snix called out to them.

“Hey! Dwarf!” Rachel turned around to face the table and found Snix looking directly at her. She walked back to the group while Mercedes entered the kitchen.

“…Are you referring to me?”  
  
Snix waved her right arm out in front of her in a ‘look around you’ gesture. “You see another dwarf around here?”

Rachel, already tired of being called names, stomped her foot in irritation. “I am exactly the same height as Mercedes, _thank-you-very-much_.” Not having expected her to retort, the table fell silent once again. Snix gave Rachel another once-over, but this one didn’t feel sexual; she was sizing her up, not stripping her down. Rachel wasn’t sure whether she should feel afraid or not, but either way, she set her chin and refused to let it show. Snix raised a single eyebrow in response.

“You got balls, Berry. I can respect that.” Rachel smiled despite herself, but Snix wasn’t finished. She tapped the space at the head of the table, where there was an empty seat. “But I wasn’t kidding about that Bloody Mary.” Rachel opened her mouth to again explain that Barrymore’s didn’t serve alcohol, but Snix cut her off with a raised hand. “You can give your excuses to Merc back there, ‘cause I don’t wanna hear ‘em.” She then waved Rachel away, returning to conversation with the rest of the table. Rachel, not wanting to irritate people she assumed to be hardened criminals, went back to the kitchen rather than pressing the issue.

In the kitchen she found Mercedes sitting on a chair near the grill, watching Sam expertly prepare everyone’s meals. The smell of sizzling meat gave Rachel pause, and she covered her nose and mouth before she spoke.

“Mercedes, Snix wants a Bloody Mary. I tried to tell her more than once that we don’t serve alcohol, but she wouldn’t listen.” Mercedes smiled back at Rachel, unfazed, as she walked over to an industrial-sized refrigerator in the corner of the room.

“She’s just messin’ with you, Rachel.”

Sam, speaking loudly to be heard over the sizzle of bacon and hamburger patties, agreed. “You’re already leaving in a few months, so she’s probably trying to see if she can scare you away sooner. Think of it as a hazing ritual. She wants to see if you’ll stick around.” Rachel, having heard only bad things about hazing rituals on the news, was not reassured by this information.

“Hazing? Don’t people die in those kinds of things?” Mercedes couldn’t help but laugh as she returned from the fridge.

“Rachel, if you don’t stop worryin' so much, you’re gonna give yourself an ulcer. Now, here. Take this back to the girls.” She handed Rachel a can of V8 and a small glass. Rachel tried to hold both in one hand so she could continue to hold her nose, but when that proved too difficult, she caved and took one in each hand. Then, realizing what she was holding, she looked up at Mercedes, confused.

“What’s this?”

Mercedes leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s a Bloody Mary.”

Rachel looked between Mercedes and what she held in her hands several times, suddenly feeling angry about her embarrassment. She spun on her heel and marched back out to the table, walking around to its far end so that she stood right next to Snix. Rachel edged the empty seat at the head of the table out of the way with an angry shove of her leg, and slammed the can of V8 and the glass down in front of the woman. For the third time that night, the table fell silent and stared up at her.

“ _This_ is your ‘Bloody Mary’? _This?”_ Snix opened her mouth to speak, but Rachel cut her off with a hand held palm-out and continued her tirade, now in full-blown Diva Mode. “Why didn’t you just ask me for a V8? I know I’m new here, and I know I’m not even from the area, but just because you’re a ‘biker chick’ doesn’t mean I have to take your crap.” She pointed an accusing finger right in Snix’s face, who looked like she was trying not to bite it off. “I don’t appreciate being called ‘dwarf’ or asked to bring you nonexistent products just because this is my first day and you think I have to pass some sort of test to be ‘worthy of your respect’, and I don’t care that you’re in charge of this gang or if you’re in charge of a dozen gangs. I’m not afraid of you.”

Having word-vomited out her rant without inhaling a single time, Rachel put her hands on her hips and took several deep breaths to reintroduce air to her system. Snix slowly slid out of her booth seat and stood uncomfortably close to Rachel, who was just then realizing the enormity of her actions. She had just angrily confronted and more-or-less challenged the leader of a biker gang that had just returned from a drug deal. In front of that same gang. As Rachel considered what she had just done, her deep breaths threatened to turn into hyperventilation. Snix stood to her full height and towered over Rachel, leaning just enough to put Rachel off-balance. Losing her footing caused Rachel to fall into the seat behind her, at the head of the table. She instinctively curled up into a ball, covering her face and internal organs. The bravado of a moment ago was gone, and Rachel was genuinely afraid. She spoke very quietly, privately impressed that she managed to speak at all.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

Snix reared back, and Rachel expected it to be to come back in with a punch, but no punch came. Snix just folded her arms and shook her head at Rachel, an unidentifiable expression on her face.

“It’s not mine.”

Rachel, confused, could only squeak out a weak, “What?” Snix, now sitting back down next to Britt, just repeated herself, though this time she gestured towards the group.

“The Skanks. They’re not mine.” She paused, then gestured at the can of V8 as well. “Neither is the Bloody Mary.” Rachel narrowed her eyes, confused by the sudden change in Snix’s behaviour.

“Then who—”

“—they’re mine.”

Rachel’s heart nearly exploded in her chest at hearing a voice from right behind her when she knew that area had been empty only moments before. Apparently, during her mini-panic attack, she had failed to register the bell ringing as the front door opened a minute or so earlier. After taking an additional moment to attempt to reduce her thundering heart rate, Rachel tilted her head back to see who had unwittingly snuck up on her.

Immediately, Rachel’s own chocolate brown eyes locked with the most beautiful hazel eyes she had ever seen in all her life. She found herself completely and utterly unable to look away from them, or recall where she was, or even what she’d been doing. She stayed adrift in those eyes for what felt like hours, and probably could have stayed there for several more, but she was dragged back to shore very abruptly when the owner of those eyes cleared their throat.

Thrust back into reality, Rachel closed her eyes and shook her head to clear her thoughts. When she opened them again and refocused her line of sight, she was greeted to a proper view of the speaker, albeit upside-down; she was a woman several inches taller than Rachel herself, with bottle-blonde hair that had been dyed a violent shade of pink and messily hacked off at the middle of the neck. Her cheekbones were firm and pronounced, gracefully leading the eye down to her full, soft-looking lips. As with the eyes, Rachel found herself unconsciously staring at the woman’s lips longer than was necessary. It was only several moments after she saw them move that Rachel realized any sound had come out of them, and when she realized that she had failed to respond to that entirely, she shook her head a second time and looked back up to the woman’s eyes apologetically. The woman thankfully seemed more amused than irritated, looking down at Rachel the way a parent looks at a child who has just said something precocious but vaguely inappropriate. She repeated herself, and Rachel heard her this second time, though her only initial thought was that the woman's voice sounded like clear water babbling lazily down a pebbled creek. After a beat or two, her brain finally registered the meaning of what her ears had heard.

“You wanna get out of my seat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Because no one offered and I don't like to be a bother.


	2. Nicotine and Gravy

Even after Rachel registered what the pink-haired woman had said, it still took another second before her body responded to the command and broke eye contact to slowly get out of the seat. The woman didn’t even wait for Rachel to fully move away before throwing herself down into it, jostling Rachel in the process and causing her to stumble a few steps before regaining her footing. The woman appeared not to have noticed, and merely tilted her head slightly in Rachel’s direction as she spoke quietly to Snix.

“Who’s the new girl?”

Rachel didn’t appreciate being talked about as if she weren’t present, and she _certainly_ didn’t appreciate being shoved. She stomped her foot and huffed in order to show her displeasure, but nobody made any indication that they’d heard her. Snix just shrugged.

“Merc said she’s some summer temp.”

The woman, pulling a small metal flask from the inside pocket of her leather jacket with one hand and reaching for the Tabasco sauce from the table’s condiment tray with the other, showed no real interest in this new development. She grunted noncommittally.

“Huh.”

The table (and Rachel) watched her in silence as she half-emptied her flask into the glass, poured in a large portion of the V8, sprinkled some Tabasco sauce on top, swirled the entire concoction around, and gulped down a third of it, all within the space of a few seconds. Savoring the burn, she closed her eyes, slowly drank the remainder of her Bloody Mary, and then set the glass down to her right. Everyone at the table was clearly waiting for the pink-haired woman to say something, and while Rachel didn’t know why everyone was suddenly on edge, she decided not to break the silence; after what seemed like an eternity, one of the bikers on the left side of the table did it for her.

_“Well?”_

The leader took a deep breath before responding, but she couldn’t help smiling a little as she did.

“It was touch-and-go there for a bit, but you were right. I had nothing to worry about. The drop went off without a hitch.”

The table collectively exhaled, as did Rachel, who hadn’t realized she was even holding her breath. The bikers cheered and clapped one another on the back, the seriousness of a moment ago forgotten entirely, and as if on cue, Mercedes rang a bell that sat behind the counter where it connected to the kitchen.

“Order up!”

It took Rachel a moment before she remembered that she was supposed to be a waitress, and she shuffled over to the counter to take the plates being set out by Sam and Mercedes. Not yet feeling skilled enough to carry the fully-loaded tray overhead, Rachel awkwardly held it in front of her, struggling to get a good hold, and eventually settling for gripping it as tightly as she could while carefully waddling over to the table followed by haphazardly dropping the tray on it. The loud clanking of dishes and silverware silenced the bikers, but, Rachel noted with relief, nothing had spilled. She looked up at the women sheepishly. This was the fourth time that night that the entire table had fallen silent to stare at her.

“Sorry.”

Rachel reached down and grabbed one of the plates, but then realized she had no idea what went to whom, or even what half of the group’s names were. She looked down at the tray helplessly, then back up at the table, darting her eyes from woman to woman.

“I—I don’t actually…I don’t know who these belong to. Or what the dishes are called. I’m sorry. It’s my first day. Night.” Her voice got quieter with every word, until the ‘night’ was a barely-whispered breath. Just as she was about to open her mouth to quietly ask who had ordered the dish she held in her hand, Mercedes saved the day by pulling it from Rachel’s grasp and setting it in front of Britt, the blonde. She then moved behind Rachel to stand at her left, whispering as she did so.

“ _Deep breaths, new girl. Lighten up._ ” When she reached Rachel’s left side, she gently edged Rachel out of the way and passed out the rest of the meals. Mercedes made it a point to state everyone’s names and dishes as she doled them out for Rachel’s benefit. “Britt: moons over my hammy, paint it red. Mack: Adam and Eve on a raft, and wreck ‘em. Mudflap: flop two, over hard, firehouse it, bacon in the alley.  Drifter: hockey puck, don’t cry over it, extra mayo. Snix: Mousetrap, splash of red noise.”

Rachel stared at Mercedes in a mix of confusion and awe, having had no idea what any of what she just heard meant but sure that it was all very impressive. Mercedes waved off Rachel’s attention, turning around and hissing in Rachel’s ear surreptitiously as she returned to the kitchen. “ _Offer them water!”_

Rachel took the empty tray from the table and hugged it to her chest, turning from Mercedes to the now-eating bikers. She flashed the table her widest Rachel Berry smile, crushing her anxiety down now that she’d been reminded that Mercedes and Sam had her back—she was a performer, after all. And this was her audience.

“Can I get you ladies anything to drink? Waters, perhaps?” She noted after asking that she should have waited a moment before doing so, since everyone had food in their mouths and therefore couldn’t respond.

Well, everyone except the pink-haired woman at the head of the table. Rachel, realizing that the woman had not received any food, looked over at her. The woman was staring down at the table, apparently lost in thought, and while Rachel wanted to get her attention, she had no idea what to call her, since Mercedes hadn’t handed her any food and therefore hadn’t called her anything. Before Rachel could decide how exactly to get the woman’s attention, Britt drew Rachel’s own by speaking.

“I’d like a baby, please.”

Rachel looked over at Britt with confusion written plainly on her features, but Britt just smiled innocently and took another bite out of her sandwich. Rachel’s eyes then darted to Snix, who was clearly enjoying the fact that Rachel had been about a half-step behind everyone else the entire night. She narrowed her eyes as if to size Rachel up once more, swallowed her mouthful of grilled cheese, and spoke with an amused lilt.

“Make that two babies, Berry.”

Rachel, aware that she was still being hazed, nodded despite not knowing what a ‘baby’ was. She then turned to the women on the left side of the table, indicating that they should make their drink orders. The large woman in the middle—Mudflap—finished chewing first, and spoke while gesturing with her left hand at the women on either side of her.

“Just three dog soups, new girl.” Unlike Snix, neither Mudflap nor Britt seemed to mean anything in particular by ordering food from Rachel using terms they had to know she had yet to learn, and she found herself wondering whether Snix really _was_ trying to give her a hard time, or whether she was just taking things too personally. Only refusing to buckle under Snix’s taunts would give her an answer, so she turned and walked back to the kitchen.

 “I’ll be right back with your drinks,” she said over her shoulder before she strode through the swinging double doors, where she found Mercedes helping Sam clean the grill. They stood very close, brushing elbows, and spoke softly to one another. Rachel felt like she was interrupting something, so she cleared her throat to get their attention.

Sam responded without moving or even looking over. “I hope you didn’t come back with more orders, Rachel. We’re almost done scraping off the grill.”

“No, just drink orders,” Rachel responded as she walked to the fridge in the back of the room, never straying too close to the grill to avoid inhaling the smell of cooked meat and eggs. “But…I don’t know what they are.” Mercedes joined her over by the fridge and pulled the large door open, blowing a cold breeze over them both.

“What’d they ask for?”

Rachel thought back and tried to remember the strange terms the bikers had used. “Snix and Britt asked for babies, and Mudflap and the other two asked for…dog soup.”

Mercedes grabbed a half-gallon of 2% milk from the fridge, then let the heavy door swing shut under its own weight and ushered Rachel over to the beverage station, which was a small counter with a soda fountain and several racks of glasses in various sizes. “Alright, Rachel. This starts part two of your waitress trainin'.” She pulled two medium-sized glasses down and filled them with milk. “A ‘baby’ is a glass of milk,” Mercedes said as she pulled down three more glasses and set them in front of Rachel, gesturing towards the sink, “and ‘dog soup’ is a glass of water.” Sam walked up behind the two girls as Rachel filled the glasses with ice and water, and Rachel looked over her shoulder at him, exasperated.

“Why can’t we just call them milk and water? I mean, I of all people certainly appreciate the theatricality of shouting anachronisms at the kitchen, but it just seems needlessly difficult.”

Sam shrugged before responding, hooking his thumbs behind his apron. “That’s just the way it is. Mercedes and I had to learn what everything was called when we started, too. Little diners in isolated areas just like the novelty of it, I guess.” He took off his dirty gloves and retrieved a fresh pair from beneath the counter, throwing the old pair away in the process. “You gotta know the lingo if you wanna play bingo.”

Rachel, having filled the water glasses and now placing them on the tray with the milk, turned around and leaned backwards on the counter. “I hope I get the hang of it quickly, then. I’d hate to have mastered the ‘lingo’ only a week before I have to leave.” She turned to Mercedes. “Do you have a list or something that I could take home and memorize?”

Mercedes chuckled. “Why, you gonna make flashcards or somethin’?” Rachel glanced at the floor self-consciously, and Mercedes full-on laughed at the realization that Rachel _would_ be the type to make flashcards. “No, there ain’t a list, but Sam and I can make one if you really want the extra help. I’m sure you can pick it up just fine from us, though. Overachiever.”

Rachel shrugged. “I suppose I’ll see whether I feel as if I’m learning quickly enough without a list. I'm sure you two are more than adequate as teachers, but I may still request a list in the future.” Mercedes tugged the laden tray towards the counter’s edge for Rachel to take, then stepped back to let her pick it up.

“Whatever works best for you, new girl. Your first test is now. A baby is…”

Rachel smiled widely in gratitude and played along. “A glass of milk.”

Sam's goofy smile gave away his amusement with the whole situation. “And dog soup is…”

“A glass of water.”

Sam and Mercedes both nodded in assent, then Mercedes took the half-gallon of milk and walked it back to the fridge while Sam stayed put.

“A glass of water can also be ‘one on the city’ or ‘Adam’s ale’, just so you know,” Sam said. “A few things have a couple different names.” Rachel’s face dropped at the new complication.

“Oh, my. I might need that list after all.”

Sam just shook his head. “I know it seems like a lot, but you’ll be rattling them off in no time. It starts to make a weird kind of sense after a while. Mercedes had me ordering stuff like a natural only a couple weeks after I’d started. With the two of us to teach you, you’ll do great.”

Rachel looked at Mercedes, who was returning from the fridge. “You mean you’ve been here longer?” she said, pointing at the other waitress. “I assumed you guys started at the same time.”

“Can’t say we did,” Mercedes replied, affectionately bumping Sam with her hip. “Sammy started two years ago. I’ve been here for three.”

Rachel turned back towards the counter and kneeled down, trying to angle herself so she could balance the tray on her shoulder rather than having to struggle with holding it in front of her again. “Well, I _have_ had to memorize untold amounts of material for performances throughout my lifetime, so perhaps it won’t be so hard with your help.” She slid the tray out slowly, then stood up even more slowly. “Okay, time to get these 'babies' and 'dog soups' out to the ladies.”

Rachel walked towards the swinging doors at a shuffle, afraid to move so quickly that she spilled something on the tray. Mercedes and Sam watched her go with amusement, which turned to confusion when Rachel stopped walking and just stood there, unmoving.

“…Oh my god,” she muttered under her breath.

Sam responded first. “‘Oh my god’, what, Rachel?”

She turned around slowly, and her eyes were wide as they darted between Sam and Mercedes. “Bloody Mary. I yelled at Snix for taunting me by ordering something that wasn’t on the menu, but she was just using the ‘lingo’. Oh, no. They must think I’m an idiot.”

Mercedes shook her head. “They think you’re _new_ , Rachel. Which you _are._ They’ll think you’re an idiot if you never take them their drinks.”

At hearing that, Rachel snapped back to attention and walked through the swinging double doors far more quickly, no longer terribly concerned if she spilled a little. She did sigh with relief when she saw that the table was deep in conversation, rather than staring at her angrily for being so slow with their order. She apologized anyway.

“Here are your wat—erm—your dog soups and your babies, ladies.” She set the drinks in front of their proper recipients. “I’m sorry that took so long. I had to ask Mercedes what your orders meant.”

Rachel expected someone—Snix, probably—to lay into her for being late or make fun of her for being new, but no one did. Before she could formulate a proper apology to Snix for going off on her earlier, the smell of smoke grabbed her attention and her head snapped to the pink-haired woman at the end of the table.

She was leaning on the table with her elbows, a lit cigarette dangling from her right hand and a lighter held loosely in her left, both hands bearing fingerless leather gloves. Rachel cleared her throat to get the woman’s attention, but she continued to stare at the table, oblivious to her surroundings. Rachel cleared her throat a second time, and her heart jumped—she couldn’t say why—when piercing hazel eyes snapped up to meet her own.

A silence of several seconds stretched between the two as the other women at the table sipped their drinks and made quiet conversation with one another. Rachel completely forgot what she had gotten the woman’s attention for, and the woman just took a quick puff from her cigarette followed by exhaling smoke slowly through her nose, never breaking eye contact. She eventually spoke, but like before, it took Rachel a moment to realize it.

“…Yes?”

Rachel, now remembering herself, blinked several times to gather her bearings.

“You…um…you can’t smoke in here.”

The woman narrowed her eyes in what Rachel interpreted as a threat. She immediately threw a hand up in a placating gesture, hugging the tray more tightly against herself with her other arm.

“Look, miss, I don’t want to cause trouble. But it’s against the law in Pennsylvania for you to smoke indo—”

“—Boss.” The woman had cut her off, and Rachel shook her head slightly in confusion.

“What?”

The woman, after a quick puff from her cigarette, grabbed the left lapel of her leather jacket and tugged it slightly, revealing a rectangular patch that read ‘BOSS’ in the same pink-on-black color scheme everyone’s other patches bore. She tapped it once with the first two fingers of her right hand, then ashed her cigarette in the empty glass her Bloody Mary had been in.

“My name’s not ‘Miss’. It’s Boss.” Rachel’s eyes glanced at the other women at the table, and she realized with embarrassment that they all had nametag patches that she had completely failed to notice.

“Oh. I’m sorry, uh, 'Boss'. But…it’s still against state law for you to smoke…in…here.” The pink-haired woman—Boss—made no move to verbally respond, instead leaning back in her chair and taking a slow, deliberate drag from her cigarette while leveling Rachel with a stare that was clearly meant as a challenge. Rachel sputtered at this clear flagrance of the law and opened her mouth to say something else about the illegality of smoking indoors, but she closed her mouth again when she realized that, as a biker gang, the Skanks probably broke several laws on a regular basis, and those laws were surely far more serious than an indoor smoking ban. Seeing the resignation in Rachel’s eyes, Boss let a small smile play across her face. She then took another long drag, smoke puffing out of her mouth with every word she spoke.

“Go get me a coffee high and dry, new girl.”

Now it was Rachel’s turn to narrow her eyes, displeased with being treated like a servant. At the same time, she was starting to feel like her constant backtalking of gang members was going to get her stabbed, and she _was_ technically wait staff, so she reined in her frustration and tried to avoid deliberately pushing any buttons.

She didn’t do a very good job.

“Yes, ma’am. _Boss._ I’ll be right back with your coffee.” Rachel finally tore her eyes away from Boss’s in order to pile the other women’s empty plates onto her tray, which she then carefully lifted to her shoulder. “And I’ll take these off your hands, ladies. But,” she punctuated with a pointed finger at Boss, whose eyes glinted mischievously in response as Rachel walked backwards towards the kitchen, “this isn’t over. You _can’t_ smoke in here. I don’t want to get fired because _you’re_ breaking the law.” Rachel then spun around and strode through the swinging double doors yet again, already cursing herself for sassing Boss. The woman had barely spoken three sentences to Rachel, but she found herself easily infuriated by the stranger all the same. She sighed in frustration and slid her tray onto the counter next to the sink across from the fridge, piling in the dirty dishware.

“Don’t be breakin’ any of those dishes,” Mercedes said from somewhere behind her. “That’ll come outta your check.” Rachel placed the last few dishes in more gingerly, then slumped against the sink. Mercedes sidled up beside her and leaned her hip against the sink, folding her arms. “Girl, what’s got you so worn down already? You ain’t even been here an entire shift.”

Rachel, bracing herself against the sink with her hands, turned her head towards Mercedes. “I just feel like I’m totally out of my depth here. I generally try to approach unfamiliar situations with aplomb and an unsinkable sense of self, but I just…I feel like I’m not doing anything correctly. I found out that I have to learn a whole new dialect to take orders efficiently, and I already made an idiot out of myself by yelling at Snix for what turned out to be a misunderstanding on my part, and that—that—that _woman!”_

Mercedes put out a hand to calm Rachel. “Snix? She treats everyone like that, Rachel. Don’t let it get to you.”

Rachel shook her head. “No, not Snix. Boss. She’s—she just—” She waved her arms around in frustration at her inability to form a coherent sentence. Mercedes laughed.

“Boss? What’d _she_ do to get you riled up? She barely even talks.”

Rachel closed her eyes to think on it. “Well, she didn’t apologize when she nearly made me fall over by bumping me when I was getting out of her chair. And she just ordered a ‘coffee high and dry’, whatever that is, talking to me like I’m some kind of servant. And! _And!"_ Rachel’s eyes snapped open now, and she pointed toward the doors that led to the dining room. “ ** _And_** she’s smoking! Indoors! Which is illegal, not to mention _highly_ inconsiderate.” Rachel folded her arms and huffed. “Secondhand smoke kills. What's worse is that it could damage my lungs, which would impact my singing voice, which is what I intend to use to make a living!” Rachel was fuming now, and Mercedes laid a calming hand on Rachel's shoulder.

She led Rachel back to the drink counter just as Sam walked through the swinging doors, wiping his hands on his apron and pulling on a pair of gloves from its front pocket. “A coffee high and dry is just black coffee,” Mercedes said as she put a coffeepot into one of three coffeemakers and turned it on. “And you need to calm down about Boss. I know you’re irritated, but unlike Snix, she ain’t tryin’ to rile you up. She just does what she does.”

Rachel again pointed toward the dining room. “But she’s smoking!”

Sam, scratching his chin, entered the conversation. “Smoking, huh? And what’d you do about it?”

“I told her to stop,” Rachel responded as if it were obvious. Sam’s shoulders bounced in a brief chuckle.

“And what’d _she_ say?”

“She didn’t say anything,” Rachel mumbled with annoyance. “She just puffed on her cigarette some more and told me to go get her a coffee.”

Sam and Mercedes briefly locked eyes and sighed in unison before looking back at Rachel.

“Rachel…” Sam began, but Mercedes took over the conversation with a wave of her arm.

“Rachel. You wanna work in a diner, you _gotta_ get a thicker skin. If you keep gettin’ tore up over every little thing that pisses you off, you’re gonna hate every single shift you have for the next few months. Those girls are sweet, but you’re a stranger to them.”

Sam cut in. “And even if you weren’t—you just don’t tell a Skank what to do, Rachel. They _are_ a gang.”

Rachel deflated. “I…I know. You’re both right. I just…I’m quite out of my element here. I’m not normally so…incompetent.” She shook her head. “Or so easy to rile up,” she added with a frown. “I developed a thick skin during high school.”

Sam lightly bumped her shoulder with his elbow. "Don’t worry about it, new girl. They don’t mean anything by it. You’ll get used to things in no time.” He flashed Rachel his wide grin. “I promise." Rachel smiled in return, starting to feel a bit silly for having overreacted.

"Not to overstate the point, but...smoking  _is_  illegal indoors here. Won't you get fined if you let her do it?"

Mercedes sighed with exasperation. "Fined? _By who,_ Rachel? Cops don't come 'round here, and the health code inspection ain't 'til the end of the year. Just let her be, girl. You'll be glad you did."

Rachel sighed. "I guess I will, then. Though I'll have to be extra careful not to inhale any smoke. I can't damage my lungs."

Mercedes scoffed, though only a little. "Man, you're serious about that performin' thing, aren't you?"

Rachel, eyes wide, responded without an ounce of facetiousness. "My voice is my life. I would _die_ if I couldn't perform. It's what I've been working toward since I was born."

The coffeepot beeped to indicate that it was done brewing, and Mercedes pulled it from its cradle to set it on Rachel's tray while Rachel reached for one of the hanging coffee mugs, placing it next to the coffeepot. Sam then lifted the tray for Rachel to stand underneath it.

"Well, I can't really blame you for wanting to protect something that important to you, Rachel," he said as Rachel stepped below the tray, arranging her arms to keep it balanced on her shoulder. "Just...you know. Watch yourself. Be careful in how exactly you go about making those concerns known."

"I'm sure I've already stepped on enough toes tonight, having yelled at Snix and all," Rachel said with a resigned sigh. "That's probably a confrontation I'll put off for now." Mercedes clapped her on the free shoulder, spinning her to face the double doors as she did so.

"Good girl."

Rachel took a deep breath and marched back out to the dining room, where the bikers were as she'd left them. One of the girls on the left—"Mack", if Rachel remembered correctly—appeared to be in the middle of a story, gesturing wildly while the others watched with varying levels of interest.

"So, no shit, there I was _._ Drifter on my left, Mudflap on my right. It's the middle of the night on the Hickson-to-Streeter, totally abandoned except for us and the Sons. We'd set up the race earlier, so they had watchers radioing in a line down all 31 miles of the straightaway to make sure no bears were gonna rain on our parade and no oncoming traffic was gonna get in our way."

Rachel, nearing the table, took the long way around and slowly lowered the tray from her shoulder to the corner of the table near Boss. Mack continued with her story.

"We're all revving so much I'm nearly deaf, but the _crack_ of the start gun is loud and clear. The three of us take off, and the Sons are totally eating our dust. In fact, we're so far ahead that it doesn't look like any of the Sons took off at all. We're not even two miles down the straightaway when one of the Sons on bear watch comes thundering in our direction from the other way, waving for us to follow. At first I think it's some kinda ploy to distract us, but a quarter-mile further down, another rides by and does the same thing. "

Slowly, to avoid drawing attention to herself and interrupting Mack, Rachel filled the mug with steaming coffee and placed both the coffeepot and mug in front of Boss.

"At this point I figure, _okay, something's gone wrong_. I pull a uey and circle around, Drifter and Mudflap on my tail. When we get back to the start, everyone's off their bikes and huddled in a circle. We hop off and walk over, and one of the Sons is lying on the ground in the middle of the group with a couple other guys trying to calm him while he's rolling around screaming bloody murder."

Boss, clearly having heard this story before, took the proffered cup of coffee and leaned back in her chair, cigarette hanging carelessly from her left hand while her right brought the mug to her lips. Rachel, for her part, was completely focused on the story despite herself.

"Turns out the guy shooting the gun—a prospect—had a coupla' drinks before showing up to the race, and instead of aiming at the sky, he'd been holding the nine at waist-level and ended up shooting one of the Sons. Right in the ass. Not two yards away, a separate circle of Sons was already beating the shit out of him for it. I could hear him begging for them to lay off, but they weren't havin' it. The guy who got shot survived, 'course. Good thing, too. Nice guy."

Mack, her story apparently over, settled back into her seat and took a drink from her glass of water. Rachel, still focused on the story, leaned in towards Mack.

"...That's it?"

"Well, I mean, we still haven't managed to reschedule the race, since we're not in North Dakota that often. Which is a damn shame; I know we coulda' won."

Rachel shook her head. "No, I mean...what happened to the other guy? The prospect?"

Mack shrugged. "He didn't get in."

"But...they didn't—he wasn't—"

"—Hey," Boss cut in. "Do you really want to continue down that line of questioning?"

Rachel pivoted to face her, but Boss had her head leaned back as she rocked her chair back and forth slowly, coffee mug held in her lap with both hands. Rachel caught herself staring at Boss's throat for a long second, and the sight made her own throat tighten.

"I...I suppose not."

Boss smirked, though her eyes remained closed. "Smart girl."

Slowly lifting the mug from her lap to her lips, Boss tilted her head forward slightly to take a gulp of the bitter drink. Rachel watched the entire process, not really even aware that she was doing so until a rough _ahem_ snapped her back to reality; she found Snix staring at her with clear amusement on her face. Rachel's own face flushed with embarrassment— _don't be ridiculous, you don't have anything to be embarrassed about_ —and she cleared her throat while taking a large step back from the table.

"Well, ladies," Rachel said as she walked around and took Snix and Britt's empty milk glasses, "do any of you need anything else?"

Snix, still grinning at Rachel, was the one to respond. "Just the check, Legs."

Rachel avoided making eye contact with Snix as she walked back to the kitchen, but she could feel the Latina's amused gaze follow her out of the room. She didn't get to avoid it for long, though, as Mercedes met her at the door with the check held between her fingers. Rachel took it in one hand, giving Mercedes her tray with the other.

"I suppose it's not hard to make out the receipt if they always get the same things, is it?"

Mercedes chuckled as she returned to the kitchen with the tray. "Sure isn't! We might as well have 'em pre-written, really. Hey, Sammy, why don't we have the checks already..."

Mercedes was out of earshot by the time Rachel turned to return to the table with the paper slip. The women had all risen from their seats while she'd walked back to the kitchen, and now shuffled cash amongst themselves in a semicircle. Mudflap broke from the group and handed Rachel a crumpled handful of bills, not even bothering to look at how much was owed. With a smile and nod, she then whirled around and followed the rest of the Skanks outside, and a moment later, their motorcycles roared to life and rumbled away on the 33.

Though the Skanks had gone, Rachel remained in the dining room for a full minute, a bit overcome with everything that had just happened.

 _Did I really just do that? Did I just meet and serve dinner to a biker gang? In a near-deserted diner in a near-deserted part of town? Wow._ The reality (and unlikelihood) of the situation made Rachel's head spin, and she actually felt a bit dizzy when she considered it all. _Kurt will never believe me. Or maybe he will, and then he'll flip out. Ha! We'll see._

"Rachel!" Mercedes called out from the kitchen. "You gonna come back here and help us wash these dishes, or did you ride away with the Skanks?"

A bit embarrassed that she'd forgotten (for the second time that night) that she was technically on the clock, Rachel turned and power-walked back to the kitchen, counting and sorting the cash in her hands as she did so.

"Sorry! I just got a bit caught up in the drama of everything I've seen tonight."

"They didn't scare you off the job, did they?" Sam asked with a grin that revealed just how unconcerned he was about the possibility. Rachel smiled and shook her head as she responded.

"No, _Sam,_ they didn't scare me off. They just...they..." Rachel stopped walking and counted the bills in her hand a second time, and then a third, looking more and more disbelieving with each breath. Sam and Mercedes, waiting for her to finish her thought, leaned in unconsciously. Mercedes was the one to jostle her out of it first.

"They _what_ , Rachel?"

Rachel, having now gone over the cash at least a half-dozen times, held the cash in one hand and the check in the other. The brunette stomped her foot loudly against the tiled floor as she turned her wrists to show Mercedes the check total versus how much cash she'd been handed.

_"They stiffed me!"_


End file.
